Odes Horace Horace. The Odes and Carmen Saeculare of Horace. Conington, John, translator. London: George Bell and Sons, 1882. O, were that monster made my prize,How would I strive to wound that brow,How tear those horns, my frantic eyesAdored but now!Shameless I left my father's home;Shameless I cheat the expectant grave;O heaven, that naked I might roamIn lions' cave!Now, ere decay my bloom devourOr thin the richness of my blood,Fain would I fall in youth's first flower,The tigers' food.